


Super Ultra (Not So) Easy Mode

by ghiblise



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:14:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24818185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghiblise/pseuds/ghiblise
Summary: Super ultra easy mode is equal parts comfort and torture, and Banri doesn't know which side of that is worse.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	Super Ultra (Not So) Easy Mode

**Author's Note:**

> buckle up for an emotional roller coaster because i honestly teared up several times while writing this

Sometimes he’s up late gaming. More often he pretends he’s gaming, and other times he wishes he actually was. 

Banri doesn’t like sleeping early. He never sleeps early.

He needs the time to be mediocre, to not have it easy — to think of ways to make his life _look_ easy. He has it all written and laid out before him. Oh the _convenience_ of it all, of having a story written just for him, and a knack for everything he tries to do.

There’s something cynical to how everyone so easily, so readily buys into his act, and how he takes comfort in that fact. 

How mundane, playing the easy game, how terribly _boring_ it all is, and yet something so insanely _difficult_ about keeping it that way.

There’s a certain hypocrisy that comes with this, like some sort of inhibition that clutches and curls around him, seeking to paint him in a corner. A script he has to strictly follow. Strung along by the lines of the playwright and made to act a role he doesn’t even remember auditioning for. 

He goes through the motions inside his head, a futile attempt to ignore the tears now staining his bed. How should he go about addressing his red, puffy eyes when he wakes? _I didn’t get any sleep last night,_ it was a truth in its own right but a lie by omission.

And if they ask why? well, _you know me,_ he’ll say with a yawn, _always up late gaming,_ and no one would be the wiser. No one would question. No one would doubt. No one will ever know the gloom that looms over him like a cloud.

Or he could escape the hassle of interrogation by applying ice before the swelling could even start. Hide and numb the pain before others can question why. 

When morning comes, he’ll dig into the back of his drawer to get the concealer that doesn’t exist and apply it on the dark circles he doesn’t have. A secret to be hidden in the hush of the morning before the sun rises.

He settles on the former. He’ll just go with the flow, no plans needed. _I’ll be fine,_ words he desperately wanted to believe in. _He’ll be fine,_ words no one had trouble believing. Will he? Is he? 

For once, he doesn’t have an answer. His entire being is a puzzle even he cannot solve. 

If given the choice between being transparent or complacent, he wouldn’t know which to choose. He hates that he can’t make a decision; hates more that he has to decide at all. 

This is the hardest his life has been all day.

There’s nothing he wants more than to be honest about his being, but he’s averse to the implications that has. The vulnerability, the nakedness, of laying your soul bare and hoping to still be loved; to still be accepted; to not feel like a burden, is simply too overwhelming — it’s absolutely _frightening._

The lies stack high, teetering and tottering with every gust of wind that accompanies new lies that are pulled out of thin air.

He knows that it will all eventually fall and the jig is up. The truth would be pried out his mouth, and brought to show and tell for others to scrutinise, to believe or to call bluff. 

Will anyone stop and consider that maybe the easygoing, carefree boy has worries too? Would he even be given the _right_ to share his struggles of being “a gifted kid”? Can they understand that sometimes being gifted comes with being cursed?

How the very thing that won him all these gold medals and trophies not only brought him praise and accolades but also isolation and disdain? That maybe, _just maybe,_ he’s tired of being branded as gifted?

Under all that gilt and shine is rust and decay — and he’ll do anything to keep that hidden away. With every layer of gold, comes a layer of bitterness. A distaste left lingering on his tongue that spoke nothing but lies and half-truths, like medicine for a disease that cannot be cured.

Every bruise, every scar, from fights he gunned for served as a palate cleanser. Every fist to the mouth was a taste of exhilaration that his life lacked. Every foot to the gut brought along a kick of spice in his life.

It was a fleeting freedom of speech wherein his punches did the talking and kicks did the bidding. 

The irony was dripping, almost as if it came from blood seeping from his cut lips.

Praise is a sickly sweet venom spat onto him. It clung like saccharine syrup at the back of his throat. While brawls give him the bliss of living in the moment, the luxury of not worrying for his future that he is already completely lost in.

Banri has long been accustomed to the language of fraud and deception. And in that language, praise always comes before the shame.

He is a genius, but a brat. He is better than the star player, smarter than the class prodigy, but is a shallow and distant delinquent, worth nothing if it weren’t for his talent.

Don’t talk about his talent unless you know that being talented is growing up isolated. Don’t talk about how easy his life is unless you know that his life is lonely, it is dreary, it is colourless. 

His life is detachment, it is desperation, and it is disappointment, and you won’t know disappointment until _every single_ kindling passion of yours is snuffed out before it could even burn. Until you’ve become numb to enthusiasm that seeks to ignite ambitions, like striking matches for a candle without a wick.

If only this story, this life, was more breathtaking than it is suffocating, it would be worth something. If he keeps rising to the top would a breath of fresh air greet him and save him from drowning?

 _Ha,_ he has to laugh, how can he even drown in himself when he’s supposedly shallow? How can a shallow person even feel such deep and complex emotions? _Maybe if I actually was… my life would be the best like I claim it is._

The cold he felt when he ran away ghosts over his skin, a chilling reminder of the escapade that has kept him going. The excitement and anticipation that welled in his chest — that threatened to take his breath away but not suffocate.

The hope that was only a spark. It wasn’t a fire, but it was good enough — enough to convince him that there was something he had yet to see.

Maybe something, or someone, would someday read in between the lines of this satiric syntax and save him from this story that paints him as everything but second-rate. 

It was a spark that lit up his sky.

The warmth that enveloped him when he first stood on stage was welcoming and kind, like an embrace of gentle but persevering flames that refused to be extinguished.

And Banri gladly let the pages of the story, written just for him, catch fire. The inhibitions that clutched and curled like strings on a puppet burned along with it.

He admits, his life isn’t so bad — at least, not anymore. But it’s not that great either.

It’s fun when it’s good but the bad’s get him wishing he was someone else. The pains of the past and burdens from his boyhood often visit him unannounced, like surprise inspections on the better man he’s trying to become. 

On days like this, he likes to reminisce of past roles he's played.

The lines, motions, and feelings, he embodies them with a rawness that he cannot replicate for himself.

The stage, a safe haven from this invisible puppeteer. After all, it’s hard to perform a shadow play when all the lights are on you.

Unfortunately every performance has a curtain to close. And he’s once again in the dark with only the flickering flame of hope he cradles close to his heart.

He is no Luciano, or Ivan, or Arata; not even Dom, or Motegi. He can only ever be Banri. But perhaps, that’s not so bad. 

Sometimes his life is easy. More often he pretends it is, and other times he wishes it actually was.

**Author's Note:**

> emo for banri squad roll out! 
> 
> i've wanted to write a short banri piece like this for a while now and aaaaaa i hope i wrote him well and did him justice  
> also this is my [twitter](https://twitter.com/azamiyoshi) , i'm always up for crying over a3 characters anytime :D


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